


Skin On Our Teeth

by Arabellah



Category: Hannibal (TV), Left 4 Dead 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Left 4 Dead 2, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Body Horror, Hannibal Loves Will, It'll Hurt you, Life as A Zombie, Loss of Identity, M/M, Psychological Horror, They're legally Cannibals now at Least, This Will have a Happy Ending Trust Me, This is NOT a crack fic, Will is a Mess, Zombie Murder Husbands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 10:18:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7310947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arabellah/pseuds/Arabellah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end, he was left for dead. The world had died, just like him. </p>
<p>But he's not alone. </p>
<p>(Zombie!AU where Will and Hannibal, after surviving the Apocalypse for as long as they could, finally get bit.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skin On Our Teeth

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this fic has been sitting on my things for more than a year. I absolutely LOVE zombies, and god help me, no one stopped me from writing this! So here it is, the zombie AU no one asked for. Sadly, I have to work on two other fics, and this one here may not update as quickly as i'd want to, but I swear on Will's round booty that I'm not letting this go. Bring on your tissue boxes because this ride will be angsty as fuck. 
> 
> Also, because I feel like they deserve better than to be the normal (and in my opinion, bland as fuck) zombies, I decided to put them in the Left 4 Dead world. Nothing's that different, they're still infected and very scary, but the way Will and Hannibal act will be a tad... Scarier. If some of you are familiar with the Left 4 dead franchise and comics, you know what I'm thinking :^) Yeah, Will is a witch and Hannibal is a hunter. If you want to know what they look like, watch this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=avdxtLleADM // Hannibal is the stalking type of Zombie and Will is the crying (and scary af) one// Witches and Hunters are part of the special infected group. 
> 
> Okay, enough of me rambling about. Let's start this, shall we? (Thank you sOOO much Victorine for being the best beta ever!)

 

_Rac, rac, rac_ _._  

 

There is something scratching the door afar from his seating place — where he can be swallowed by silence and darkness without any disturbance. He lets out a whimper, not bothering to move and find out whatever is out there. 

 

He doesn't want to know. 

 

_Rac, rac, rac._

 

It sounds like claws scratching wood. Faint noises barely noticeable over the thick air.

 

_Rac, rac, rac._

 

He does not want to care about it. He whimpers again in silence, wiping his damp eyes with the back of his hand. 

A small, pathetic sob comes out of his dry lips. 

 

_Rac, rac, rac, thump!_  

 

 

He flinches at the loud sound, growling immediately in alarm, hands starting to twitch involuntarily. He doesn't want to be disturbed. He just wants to be  _alone_. 

 

He elevates his low, warning growling, locking his eyes on the door. If he needs to, he'll stand up and threaten whatever comes out. If it blinds him with light, he'll attack. 

 

Loud, shifting noises come from the opening door, and before he can stand, he catches a glimpse of a crawling figure pulling a large, bloodied body into the room. It emits a familiar, greeting grunt.

 

He instantly relaxes when he hears that, and catches the scent of it. Another growl welcomes him as the crawler gently approaches his side, dragging the body with its sharp teeth. They hold eye contact for a few seconds, and he can slowly recognise the familiar shape of his visitor:  _sharp facial angles, scratch-covered eyes, dirty blond hair_ _._ He can't seem to fix the mental image of the creature within him. He always forgets the details. But his scent is familiar, even covered with blood. It's soothing, and it makes him feel less empty. 

 

His visitor is a  _hunter_. No, not a visitor, he _knows_ this hunter, at least for as long as his fogged mind allows him to. His anxious growling slowly stops, and he lets his guard down. 

 

This hunter eyes him as if asking if it could come closer. He backs his hands down to show permission to enter his personal space, and he is thankful for the question. He doesn't like being approached at all. A soft, happy growl comes from his company, as it crawls over to him on all fours. They lock eyes again, and a strange, bubbly feeling erupts from his belly. 

 

He doesn't know what that feeling is, but it is welcomed.

 

The hunter first sniffs his body, and then licks some of the tears off his cheeks, making him draw closer to it. He also feels the creature scent him, and lean its bigger body over his smaller one. His heart beats faster. The fluttering feeling in his belly imbues him with strength, and it feels better than being alone.

 

And still; he stays limp in his sitting position, his hands twitching on the ground, and his eyes still moist from his never-ending tears. But he feels the corner of his lips pull up, and he knows that's a good sign. 

 

His hunter notices that he is not tense anymore. It looks at him with its shadowed, red eyes, all puffy from scratches but sharp enough to see better than him, and he doesn't understand his affection towards the creature. He doesn't know what to call it, but come to that, he doesn't even know what to call himself. It doesn't matter anymore. 

 

His mind has been clouded for too long for him to remember his name or the name of the hunter — he only remembers his spot on the floor and his craving to be alone. He also remembers that this hunter cares for him, bringing him food and giving him its attention. He doesn't understand  _why_. It feels peculiar, but it doesn't bother him like bright lights in his eyes or loud noises in his ears. 

 

He doesn't understand much. And  _that_  bothers him.

 

Nonetheless, he gives the hunter a soft, content growl. A stab of hunger hits him, and the body on the floor is sliced deep enough to see the red, succulent meat he so deeply craves. They eat the corpse together — the hunter eagerly tearing off the flesh with sharp teeth and chewing chunky bites with gusto, so different from himself, who bites the meat hesitantly. His own sharp talons slice through their prey with way more ease than the hunter’s, and he decides small cuts are enough for him. 

 

After their meal is essentially done and all that is left are bones and guts, he lets himself lie back on the ragged mattress he keeps within the room, not bothering to clean his fingers from the gory mess they usually are. His hunter cleans them instead, licking them happily with tender care, and he wonders what has he done to have such company by his side. 

 

He doesn't let himself think about that often. Because he can hardly keep grip on any thoughts at all.

 

Rolling to his side lets the hunter lick some of the drying tears on his cheeks. He enjoys it — it soothes his constant ache for solitude. He finds out that this creature soothes him so much he is content to let it lie next to him, its tongue still caressing his face so lovingly he finds himself snoozing. He doesn't remember his need to sleep, but he couldn't care less. This hunter also reminds him to eat. 

 

If it was up to him, he'd be sitting here alone, lost in the hazy fog of his mind. He'd probably die of hunger, or exhaustion. But none of those situations brings him to awareness — if any of them happened, he's sure he wouldn't notice.

 

A reason for his existence in this dark room is never sought; nor one for why this hunter keeps him from dying. He feels  _dead_  already. So he sits here everyday, crying pitifully, for as long as he can remember. He forgets what he is crying for too. He just  _forgets, forgets, and forgets_. Why it happens, he can't seem to remember. His mind is bare; empty. 

 

There's nothing to hold on anymore. 

 

So he cries himself to sleep —his low, pitiful whimpers lulling him and his hunter to complete darkness. He hasn’t been able to differentiate between whether he's asleep or awake for a long time now. 

 

He closes his eyes anyway.

 

 

\-------

 

 

_It hurts._

 

_My body, my fingers, my head, every single part of me hurts._

 

_I just want the pain to stop, but I can't... I can't do anything._

 

_My head is spinning. I don't know where I am anymore, what my name is. What's my name? It's on the tip of my tongue. But I can't even open my own mouth. My tongue feels heavy, and I feel sick._

 

_I just want this to stop... I don't know what is happening to me. I don't feel like my own self anymore. My fingers... Oh god my fingers... Everything is so blurry and vacant but I can still feel every jab of pain my fingers are granting me. My head hurts a lot too... And why is everything so goddamn bright?_

 

_I need help. I need to stand up and do something. I have to tell... To tell..._

 

_Where is he? Did he leave? Did he leave me..?_

 

_If..._

 

_If he left me... That means I was left for dead. He promised he would take care of me and he'd never do that... But now I'm alone. God, he promised it and now I feel like I'm dying... My head hurts so much. I just want to let the tears fall._

 

_He left me... I was left behind._

 

_I'm alone and it hurts_ _._

 

_I'm..._

 

_Where... Please..._

 

_...Where are you, Hannibal?!_

 

 

 

\---

 

He wakes with a jolt and a name in his mouth. 

 

His hunter also jumps out of its curled sleeping position and gives him a startled look. Heavy breathing is the only sound aside from birds chirping out in the bright sun for a few seconds; as the hunter's eyes analyse him to see if he is okay. He breathes in, taking in air to calm himself down, and finally gives his companion a reassuring growl. The hunter takes that as a good sign — growling back in relief — as it starts to stretch its long, once plaid-suit-covered legs with a yawn. He notices the hunter’s skin once had been tanned and healthy, but now small infected blisters and a greyish, sickly tone are all that is left. He sees his companion slowly make its way to the window, crawling soundlessly. The hunter gives him another reassuring growl as it sits on the top of a worn table. 

 

His mind involuntarily travels back to what he'd heard when his eyes were shut. It leaves a bitter taste on his tongue, but he can still recall some pieces of it. He screws his eyes shut once more, and deeply focuses on what he'd vividly felt. 

 

Pain, and a name. Name? He didn't know any names. But  _something_  was nudging his mind, and it was a word that he used to say. He hasn’t known how to speak properly for a long time now — he doesn't really recall he ever spoke at all — but it is there. It feels familiar somehow, and he's sure he’s heard it before.

 

_Ha... Hannibal_ _?_

 

Nothing comes to his mind after remembering this familiar word. He wonders what meaning it had for him, before he got too lost in his fogged mind. Frustration quickly overwhelms him, fuelling his anger, and an annoyed growl escapes his lips. 

 

His hunter turns to him as soon as he stops, as if it is _questioning_  him. He brushes the creature off by hiding his face in his hands, giving in to small, wrecked sobs. He wonders if he could try to speak that word. Emitting any sounds other than growls and pathetic cries was a foreign action for him. It felt wrong, to do more than stay put and cry there on the floor, submerged in his own pettiness and neglect. He didn't enjoy the thought of doing more than what he deeply craved, it made him angry. But it was there, this curious word that must have meant so much to him. He didn't remember anything before the fog invaded his head. It was meaningless, useless as his existence and the dying walkers from the outside. Futile,  _wrong_. 

 

But... familiar. And it made him feel as warm as when his hunter dried his tears. An unknown, receptive feeling he couldn't name. Not as if there was anything left to be named. 

 

He takes a small glimpse at the only company he has left, and for the first time he can remember, he properly examines this hunter. It looks  _sick —_  sick as their blister-covered skin, and it pants as if the air they breath will come to an end. But they all did. Whatever happened to him and his hunter wasn't making them live any longer. The crawler also behaved differently from the walkers — stalking in shadows instead of roaming fruitlessly, only to bring its prey to his lair. Both also weren't attracted to the red, bleeping lights nor the smell of boomer bile. 

 

He also never took notice of what he truly was. What he was doing,  _what happened to them_. His mind felt clearer, but it hurt to expand his questioning thoughts like this. But he couldn't stop. What did that word mean? Why did this hunter stay with him, and why did he cry so much? 

 

_...What happened to the world? What happened to me?_

 

He gives in to a wrecked cry, and holds his head between his fingers — no, sharp talons, covered in dried blood and dirt — and screams; a loud, agonising shriek so high it startles his hunter. His head is hurting like it did during his dream, and he feels hopeless. The name he remembered snaps back into his mind, begging to be scratched at and to be in his thoughts, and it hurts him in such a way all he can do is vocalise his anger. He wails again, rocking back and forth, head ducked down and hands covering his face, and begs it to stop. 

 

Stop hurting him. Stop making him  _think_. Stop — 

 

A loud crack is heard from outside of the room, and then he hears them: whispering voices, blatantly foreign, and along with them the smell of gunpowder. His interest soon falters, but his hunter is already crawling to the opening in the ceiling, not bothering to even look back at him. He knows the creature gets hyped by the presence of those light-holding beings, and so he lets it go. He goes back to his pitiful whining, hiding his face back again and letting shaking sobs take his curled body. He also lets his mind wander to the name he remembered, tasting each syllable with caution. 

 

More loud noises come from outside; yelling, quickly followed by hushed whispers. He wishes he could understand what they were truly saying. 

 

But instead, they come closer.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for the angst. I'm officially evil. And also, this chapter is tiny af. But I'm planning on writing them as long as they can be later on. Pls forgive me D:
> 
> Please tell me what you think! This fic was written a while ago, and now that everyone is hyped about Mads saying that he wanted to be a zombie, I hope you enjoy this!


End file.
